Sonnet 35: Until Slow Grows A Weaver, Devils Work Poem by Pijush Biswas

Until slow grows a weaver, devils work
His think'in gives lives world, so they kill him
Matter now, will world really be a York?
Hidden now the cultivated field's where?
Fast, as if, ladder'd was it, 'gain be dim
Nor a impulsive mood would grow a fire
Nor, but atomes o'er take it's palsy sake
Rather illuminative eyes leave q'tion
Those who were dark in but the world much make,
My rondel tune must cast curse to them, lie;
Country is fair until protector's n'tion
Is fist into itself to sack from bee
A q'tion further, - does it sally the doom?
Where much plead to live, others use to loom.




Written By-

Abbie Clare [P.B]
05/07/2017
Gazole,
W.B,
India,
{Night}